


Deal's A Deal

by Ashkiis



Category: Prison Break
Genre: Dubious Consent, M/M, Manipulation, Sexual Coercion, Threats
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-10
Updated: 2016-09-10
Packaged: 2018-08-14 07:22:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8003605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ashkiis/pseuds/Ashkiis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Now listen, Pretty, here’s how this is gonna go,” the Alabamian said lowly, leaning forward so that his lips were mere inches from Michael’s face. “You are gonna play nice. Unless you want dear ol’ Lincoln to have a screwdriver straight through the eye.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Deal's A Deal

**Author's Note:**

> Set during the Season 1 finale, but varies, as I’m sure you expected.
> 
> I finished S1 a while back. It was my understanding that it was wintertime at the time of the finale. If that’s not correct, someone point it out for me and I will change some descriptions and weather and whatnot (OR NOT BECAUSE IT’S MY STORY – JK ;D ). 
> 
> Like always, I’m worried about the quality of writing and characterization. I’m also not sure of the plausibility of this fic, but whatever. Haha.
> 
> A few of the lines of dialogue are directly from the episode. 
> 
> Thanks for reading. <3 
> 
> Okay, on a side note that made me laugh. I was having trouble with the title and I went on Omegle to ask someone, just for fun, to see what sort of response I would get. I told this person it was a fanfiction story about Michael going head to head with Theodore Bagwell and asked for help with a title. Their response: T-Bang…I dunno.  
> And then they disconnected. Hahahahahaha. I just thought it was funny. 
> 
> Anyway. Ahem. On to the story.

Bright beams from the overhead helicopter swung wildly, the whirring blades of the metal bird deafening to the cons’ ears. Panting harshly, the six men pressed themselves against the cliff face as much as possible, willing themselves to blend in, or more magically yet, disappear into the rocky side until the search was called off. “It’s coming back, y’all, it’s coming back!” C-Note shouted, followed by a, “Make yourself small!”

Not for the first time Michael couldn’t help but fear his plan wouldn’t work. He hadn’t calculated for this. No way could he have anticipated T-Bag cuffing them together, that there would be so many prisoners involved in the escape. There just hadn’t been the time to think through every possibility, to make detailed plans and schemes in order to deal with any sort of obstacle. For all his preparation and outlines, for all his detailed ideas, he felt that here, in the home stretch, this was where he would fail.

With a frantic sigh, Michael wedged his body more firmly against the rock, praying to anyone that was willing to listen to let him keep Lincoln safe and get him away. To hell with the other convicts – Sucre excluded. Lincoln was all that mattered.

“There’s no way we are gonna make two miles like this!” C-Note continued, voicing what they were all thinking. “Especially with that bird up there!”

Michael glanced around hysterically, his mind whirling with different scenarios and possibilities on how to safely escape. Most bordered on futile, others reckless, pointless, dangerous. He was beginning to panic, glancing at Linc with desperation beginning to cloud his mind. He wasn’t thinking straight, couldn’t imagine letting the authorities recapture his brother. He would turn himself in, face the electric chair himself if it only meant getting his older sibling away.

He didn’t notice Sucre looking around, his bright eyes following the path of the helicopter’s beams. “We are if I got something to do with it,” he announced to the group, a sly grin lighting up his face.

And he had never been more grateful that Sucre had been his cellmate.

* * *

It was cold. His breath puffed out with every desperate gasp he took. The air burned his lungs. And though it felt good on his heated skin from all of the running, Michael wished that it was a warmer night.  At least then his lungs would burn only from exertion.

Sucre’s plan hadn’t worked. The car didn’t have an engine. There was no way for him to jumpstart the old vehicle. He loved his cellie for trying, but he cursed the hope that had sprung up in his chest at the thought that maybe for once a plan that wasn’t his would succeed where his had failed.

So they had ran.

It was obvious that T-Bag’s plan to save his skin by cuffing himself to the engineer had its drawbacks. They were slowing everyone down. Despite himself, Michael was surprised by how in sync they were as they sprinted together, and shuddered at the thought that he and T-Bag could ever be so symmetrical. But even though they worked well together, relatively speaking, the cuffs forced them to stay close, to keep their strides smaller and abreast of one another. The four others were many yards ahead of them at all times, and no amount of encouragement from Sucre, gruff pleading from Lincoln, muttered curses from Abruzzi, or huffs of frustration from C-Note could quicken their pace.

Snow had started to fall about fifteen minutes after they had raced away from the engineless car. At first it had been a light flurry, nothing more than a mere nuisance. Now though, great clumps fell from the sky, blinding the men with the force of the gusts of wind and flakes of snow. T-Bag was panting harshly beside him, beginning to trail ever so slightly behind Michael’s still panicky pace. Lincoln was calling out to him from up ahead, urging him to move faster.

When the cuffed cons finally caught up to the four others, they all gathered in a circle and panted, taking a moment to get their bearings. “Mike, what does this mean for us?” Lincoln finally asked once he was able to catch his breath. It took a moment for Michael to realize he meant the weather.

“They’ll be able to see our tracks, that’s what,” Abruzzi growled, beginning to pace with agitation. It was obvious he wanted to keep moving.

Michael glanced out of the corner of his eye to watch the grizzled mob boss. “True,” he relented, clearing his throat in an effort to ease the ache and burn from his erratic breathing and the frigid air. “The cold also means our scent will linger for a longer time.” Abruzzi threw up his hands at that and stomped away, throwing his fist into the unforgiving bark of a nearby tree. C-Note frowned deeply, sharing a worried look with Sucre. T-Bag groaned with a barely audible “Aw Pretty, no”. Only Lincoln didn’t break eye contact, continued to stare at Michael. Unwavering trust.

“But,” Michael continued, his eyes shifting now to look at the other members of the group in turn, “the snow can also cover our scent trail. Make it harder for the dogs to follow. We just have to get where we’re going _before_ it stops snowing.”

There was a moment of silence as the group digested the news. “Then fucking _move_ ,” Abruzzi finally answered, whipping around to face Michael. He could barely see the older man through the winter storm, though he stood just feet away. But Michael could see that the crazed look that had been in John’s eyes since he returned to Fox River was back, glittering dangerously as he looked at Michael and then at T-Bag. Abruzzi stalked forward as if he were about to grab the pair and physically force them to move, but Lincoln blocked his path, moving to shield Michael.

“Get going,” Lincoln ground out, glaring at Abruzzi with obvious dislike.

“Ooooh, my knight in shining armor,” T-Bag quipped, batting his eyelashes at Lincoln’s back as he moved away, following the retreating form of Abruzzi. The Alabamian chuckled when Michael sent a glare his way. “Don’t worry, Pretty. I’ve only got eyes for you,” T-Bag whispered, sidling up to him. He pushed the smaller man away with distaste, forgetting they were locked together in his moment of disgust.

“I’m not going anywhere, Scofield,” T-Bag reminded him, his voice now a dangerous hiss.

Michael decided it wasn’t worth answering.

* * *

“Michael, we won’t make it to the air field. Not in this.”

The storm had increased dramatically. Snow fell heavily and sliced their exposed skin, the wind ferocious and punishing. Logically he knew Lincoln was right. Besides, the plane probably couldn’t take off because of the storm anyway. And though yes, he _had_ , planned for the plane not working out somehow, it was definitely a serious drawback. Especially when he had made certain promises to potentially dangerous cons that were in their company…

Beside him, T-Bag huffed, but didn’t argue. Michael would have preferred to speak to Lincoln in private, but as it was, the Alabamian was privy to their conversation. Like Lincoln minutes before, T-Bag too seemed to have faith in Michael, didn’t allow himself to worry when he heard the original plan wasn’t going to pan out the way it had been explained to him. If it had been another person, like Sucre, Michael would have felt honored by the belief in him. As it was, he felt irritated by T-Bag’s unquestioning gaze.

“There was a farmhouse about five minutes back,” Michael said slowly, though he was obviously uncomfortable at the prospect of hunkering down around civilians.

Sucre whipped around. “A barn, that’s good right? Maybe there will be animals to, you know, cover our scent.” His smile was endearing, hope lighting up his face. Michael couldn’t help but weakly smile back.

Abruzzi shuffled closer, looking at Sucre and then at Michael. “I don’t like it,” he said lowly, his brows knitting together tightly.

“There’s no other option. Go ahead on your own then,” Lincoln stated, crossing his arms and leaning them against his impressive chest. The threat was obvious.

“Maybe I will,” Abruzzi snarled. His glare swung back to Michael. “Fibonacci. His location. Now.” His tone was commanding, but there was a tired note to it that Michael didn’t miss.

Remaining silent, the engineer simply stared at the older man. After a moment Abruzzi nodded, as if he knew all along that Michael hadn’t intended to share the rat’s whereabouts. “That’s okay, Michael. We’re even.” Abruzzi took a moment to stare at T-Bag, a promise of a threat obvious in his malevolent gaze. But with a final nod at Michael, the mob boss stepped away and retreated, disappearing into the mini blizzard the cons found themselves in.

“Is he really leaving?” Sucre asked, his eyes widening. “Should we go after him?”

C-Note stood up from his crouched position, shaking his head. “I don’t know about ya’ll, but I’m out too.” He ignored Sucre’s gasp of surprise. “Thanks for everything, Snowflake. Good luck.”

Michael and C-Note exchanged a nod of understanding. He couldn’t fault the other man for leaving. He and T-Bag were slowing them down, and staying put in a barn may not be the smartest decision.

T-Bag clicked his tongue as C-Note saluted the remaining cons and faded out of sight. “And then there were four,” he murmured, followed by a small chuckle.

* * *

“You know, Pretty, I still don’t regret bringing us closer together. I think stickin’ with you is the best bet.”

T-Bag wouldn’t stop talking. They had fallen behind again, Sucre and Lincoln leading the way back to the remote farmhouse. His brother and cellmate didn’t get too far ahead, as it was a real worry that the weather would separate them and they wouldn’t find one anther again. But they were far enough away that Michael was the only one T-Bag could talk to, and the despicable man didn’t waste the opportunity. It didn’t matter that Michael didn’t respond. T-Bag continued to speak.

A low whistle perked Michael up and he picked up the pace, seeing through the gale the outline of the barn. Lincoln stood in the doorway, nervously looking around for any sign of the owner of the property. When he and T-Bag had crossed the threshold, the door was quickly but quietly shut by Sucre.

“More of a tool shed than a barn,” Sucre commented when he turned around to study the space they found themselves holed up in. It was a sizeable building, hosting a broken down car, a work space, and a back area full of miscellaneous equipment and storage. Not as big as a stable that would have housed animals, but big enough that they could spread out, find separate areas to sleep in.

Lincoln grunted and approached a tool bench, rummaging through the utensils he found there.

“Nice and cozy, eh guys?” T-Bag commented, throwing an unwelcome arm across Sucre’s shoulders. The Puerto Rican shrugged him off and moved away, frowning as T-Bag laughed.

By that time Lincoln had turned around with a pair of wire cutters in his hand. The look on his face was anything but friendly, and T-Bag quickly honed in on the bigger man. “What’s going on?” he asked, worry beginning to erase the mocking smile that had so recently been directed Sucre’s way. “What’s going on?”

“Hold him down, Sucre,” Lincoln ordered, and though he moved to comply, T-Bag hissed like a wildcat and batted at him. It took a moment of struggling – in which Michael was no help, so shocked was he by the proceedings – but Lincoln and Sucre finally managed to pin T-Bag against the hood of the car, Michael having no choice but to lean there as well, the force of the handcuffs keeping them close even in this.

“Guys, what are you doing? What the hell you doing? I swear to God!” T-Bag was panicking, his voice rising to dangerous levels.

“You swear what?” Michael spit back, and the look of disbelief on T-Bag’s face was satisfying.

While still pinning T-Bag down, Lincoln wielded the wire cutters and set to work on the connecting links of the cuffs that held Michael and T-Bag together. Each of them held their breath, three hoping for the tool to work, while T-Bag alone wished the metal would hold.

Steadying himself, Lincoln braced himself and then squeezed. The chain gave no indication of breaking. There was no dramatic click or the sound of metal disconnecting. Even with Lincoln’s strength, it was apparent after two or three tries that the wire cutters just couldn’t get through the cuff’s chain.

Sucre huffed loudly in frustration. “It ain’t gonna work,” he said, shooting a brief look of condolence Michael’s way.

“I guess it was just meant to be, hey now fellas?” T-Bag responded, the arrogant smirk back on his face.

With a growl, Lincoln released the Alabamian and threw the wire cutters, forgetting in his anger they were trying to be quiet.

* * *

Lincoln had agreed to take first watch after the fiasco with the wire cutters. They were the only tool in the building that would have been capable of separating Michael and T-Bag. In the end, Michael had to resign himself to staying stuck with T-Bag for a while longer.

Much to their frustration, it hadn’t been but five minutes after they entered the building that the winter storm had died down to a light snow. The four cons debated about if they should have continued for the air strip, but in the end all agreed that the rest was well deserved and perhaps less dangerous than banking on the plane. Michael had shared his plan, declaring to them that he had made adjustments for the possibility of the plane not panning out. Reassured, they had all found places to lie down while Lincoln sat by the door.

Not excited by the prospect of sleeping literally inches from T-Bag, Michael had had a hard time falling asleep. Sucre had taken the backseat of the car to sleep in, while he and T-Bag shared a plastic tarp as a blanket. They were towards the rear of the building, lying amongst a mound of burlap sacks. “I could keep you warmer than this cold plastic, Pretty,” T-Bag had offered, but Michael had twisted away as far as possible and warned the other man he would sic Lincoln on him if he didn’t keep away from him.

* * *

Now, he was dreaming that he was shaking hands with the top minds in the engineering community. It was an award ceremony he was attending, and all of the head intellectuals from various colleges and companies were there to congratulate, him, Michael Scofield, on his daring plan to rescue his innocent brother. Lincoln had been cleared of all charges. Sara stood at his side, clothed in an elegant red dress and the most beautiful diamond necklace he had ever seen. It seemed like there was a never ending line of professors, professionals, and admirers that came up to shake his hand. His arm was sore from all of the hand shaking.

With a groan, Michael woke up. He was groggy, exhausted from all of the stress and the running. His eyes remained closed and he breathed deeply, trying to remember the details of his good dream and ingrain them in his memory. Sara had looked so elegant, a gorgeous woman that had stood by his side with a loving and knowing smile. He felt himself smiling at the thought of it. Lincoln had looked so healthy, also at his side and smiling broadly, boasting about his baby brother to all that would listen. Perhaps Sucre had been pardoned in his dream world too. Michael hoped so, even if it didn’t cross over into reality. It was still a nice thought. Oh, and the number of those that had wanted to congratulate him, that had wanted to shake his hand. He couldn’t imagine it, wasn’t sure if he truly wanted the fame and notoriety that his scheme would bring him.

As his muzzy mind slowly returned to the waking world, Michael was suddenly struck with the awareness that his arm was still moving. Was he still dreaming? He took control of his arm and pulled, and the movement was greeted by a low moan. What the hell?

As sudden as lightning, Michael’s eyes shot open. He swung his head to the right and was greeted by the glittering eyes of T-Bag. The other man had his teeth clamped sensuously on his lower lip, and Michael could see his snake-like tongue moving in the depths of his mouth through the slim gap of his parted lips. When T-Bag realized Michael was awake and staring at him, another moan escaped him and his eyes fluttered.

It was many moments before Michael allowed his gaze to travel south, aware that his arm was still moving because of T-Bag. When his eyes finally registered just why his right arm was moving without his permission, Michael felt a panicked whine bubbling in his throat. The other man’s pants were pulled down far enough to allow his erect cock to spring free, and T-Bag was jerking it off with his left hand. Because the cuff was secured to T-Bag’s left hand, and because the connecting chain was so short, and because Michael’s right hand was the cuffed arm, it forced Michael’s right arm to bob along with the obscene movements T-Bag was making. Their plastic blanket had been pushed away, bunched down by their feet, forgotten.

“What are you doing?” Michael finally whispered, his eyes wide with incredulity, too shocked to stop his arm from moving.

“Oh Pretty, a man has needsssss,” T-Bag answered, his eyes still closed in the throes of his pleasure.

“Right _now_?!” he hissed, finally pulling his arm in an effort to gain control.

Instead of stopping or letting go, the southerner tightened his hold on his length and groaned, oblivious to any sort of pain he might be experiencing from Michael’s frantic tugging. Michael felt his gut twisting in disgust. The sicko was getting off on this, liking the sensation of Michael…aiding his jerking off.

Finally T-Bag opened his eyes and looked at the engineer, a lazy grin curling the corners of his mouth. “Why not? No time like the present.”

“I’ll yell for Lincoln,” Michael threatened, hating the childish threat even as it slipped out.

T-Bag leaned up and supported himself on his arm, facing Michael, letting go of his dick in order to balance himself. Michael shrank as far away from him as possible, his eyes inadvertently sliding downward at the still hard member of the man next to him.

“See Pretty, I thought you might say something like that.”

Quick as a viper, T-Bag rolled over so that he was straddling the younger man. A strangled gasp escaped Michael, and he was about to shout for his brother when T-Bag’s left hand clamped down over his mouth. He was able to keep his hand on Michael’s mouth despite his resisting, and in the back of his mind Michael marveled how such a small man could be so strong. “Now listen, Pretty, here’s how this is gonna go,” the Alabamian said lowly, leaning forward so that his lips were mere inches from Michael’s face. “You _are_ gonna play nice. Unless you want dear ol’ Lincoln to have a screwdriver straight through the eye.”

What? Michael’s eyes widened and T-Bag’s grin broadened at the expression. The Alabamian leaned over, back towards where he had been lying down before, and Michael didn’t even think to buck the other man off. When T-Bag returned to his positon on top of Michael, he held a screwdriver in his hand, spinning it with an easy flourish. The bastard! How had the snake gotten that? Michael racked his brain, trying to remember if they had been near the tool bench earlier in the night. He couldn’t remember, but obviously they had been close enough that T-Bag had been able to swipe the tool without anyone else noticing.

Michael glowered at him. It rankled that this man could outsmart him like this. Worse yet was that this wasn’t the first time. Michael may have been gifted in many ways, educated beyond most, yet T-Bag still found the means to keep himself in the intellectual race against him. It unnerved him to feel a grudging respect spring up for the vile con. If T-Bag had been someone else, he might have enjoyed the cerebral challenge.  But in this, where one mistake could prove fatal, when the adversary was so dangerous, Michael felt nothing but the beginnings of fear.

He tried to speak beneath the tight grip of T-Bag’s hand until the other man hesitantly let go with one last warning squeeze. “What if I tell him you have a weapon? He’ll be prepared,” Michael countered quietly, striving not to show the desperate fright that was constricting his throat.

T-Bag’s teeth bit down lightly on his lip as he processed Michael’s reaction. After a moment he laughed darkly. “Oh Pretty, ya crack me up.” He shook his head with amusement and tapped Michael’s cheek with the tip of the screwdriver. “Do you think he’d endanger your life? I’d just take ya hostage, make our hasty getaway, you’d be separated from your precious brother, your entire plan would be compromised…”

That seemed like a stretch to Michael. Lincoln and Sucre could overpower T-Bag again. Even with the screwdriver. And Michael didn’t care so much that his own life was on the line. All that mattered was Lincoln.

But… what if T-Bag was right? What if he was somehow able to get in a good jab, mortally injuring one of them? Without Michael and his ideas… His brother was resilient, street smart. But could Lincoln truly escape and stay safe without his plan?

It wasn’t worth it to risk it all over T-Bag’s perversion. He couldn’t risk that Lincoln would be injured in a struggle. So what if T-Bag wanted to masturbate next to him? Michael glanced up at T-Bag and hated the knowing look he saw there. Hated that T-Bag seemed to understand the way he thought and processed so well. “Fine, go ahead and finish,” Michael huffed. His cheeks colored at that. This was the most uncomfortable moment of his life, and he was suddenly reminded how close T-Bag’s naked cock was to his face.

“Right on top of you? Straight into those baby blues? You’re kinky, Pretty,” T-Bag teased, and Michael sputtered with indignation, disbelief, and extreme humiliation.  

“You know that’s not what I meant,” he argued back, struggling to remain calm, though he couldn’t help but squirm anxiously under T-Bag’s weight. “Roll back over and get it over with. I won’t stop you.”

Without a retort, the older man bit his lip as he delicately traced the veins along his hardened member with the tip of the screwdriver. Michael could feel his eyes growing larger as he took in the startling sight. The entire situation was ludicrous. T-Bag on top of him, the Alabamian’s hard and leaking cock close to his face, a screwdriver still at hand and ready to inflict damage.

T-Bag moaned when they made eye contact, and Michael felt the red in his cheeks deepening. Mortified wasn’t a strong enough word to explain how he felt in that moment. He opened his mouth to tell T-Bag to get off of him, but when his lips parted it made T-Bag sigh in pleasure again. His lips reclosed and turned down into an unhappy grimace.

“Don’t pout, Pretty,” the convict teased, a smile lazily tugging at his lips. All the while the older man continued to gently tickle the sensitive length that was getting dangerously close to his face. _Much_ too close for Michael’s liking.

He glared at T-Bag for a moment, but refused to open his mouth. No way was he going to give the older man a chance to force something inside. Instead he averted his eyes and stared up at the ceiling, trying to trace the imperfections up above by the dim light that filtered inside. If T-Bag insisted on this, then fine, he would just ignore him. Michael refused to give him the satisfaction of capturing his attention throughout the appalling ordeal.

It was disconcerting not being able to see what T-Bag was doing, but with determination he continued to look up, ignoring the breathy moans that were escaping the other man. When T-Bag’s thighs tightened around his chest, Michael’s mouth thinned, yet he still forced his gaze up.

Seventeen knots in the wood above. That’s how many there were. Hardly interesting, but it was something to count to keep his mind off of the masturbating convict on top of him. Michael was just about to catalog another detail of the structure when a creeping hand brushed against his navel beneath the hem of his prison shirt. At the sensation he jerked wildly, his eyes snapping towards T-Bag in a millisecond.

The grin that greeted him made his blood boil. T-Bag was infinitely pleased with himself. “Stop,” Michael hissed, fury glittering in his eyes.

T-Bag tsked and moved his hand up higher, sliding against the flat planes of Michael’s stomach. “Let’s renegotiate,” he said, ignoring Michael’s increasingly desperate fidgeting as his hand ventured higher. 

Michael could hardly comprehend what the other man was saying. Concerned over what T-Bag planned to do beneath his shirt, his eyes remained trained on the hand that explored beneath his clothes.

The Alabamian continued without waiting for a response, but he stilled his hand, allowing Michael to focus on what he was saying. “I want a little more…par-ti-ci-pa-tion.” He drew out the syllables on the last word, his tongue flicking in the depths of his mouth like an agitated cobra.

“Like hell,” Michael grated out.

A dangerous look entered the older man’s eye and he leaned forward so that he was mere inches from Michael’s face. The hand beneath his shirt clenched, blunt nails digging into his skin. Michael gasped at the sudden pain. “I hold all the cards here. Saying we were gonna negotiate was just a formality.” His nails dug in further and Michael hissed. “I will kill Burrows without a second thought. And the Costa Rican too.”

It wasn’t the time to correct T-Bag and tell him it was ‘Puerto Rican’.

“So really, it’s all up’ta you how this goes, Scofield. Are you going to play nice?” He leaned away while also releasing the harsh grip on Michael’s skin. “Or not?”

Michael wanted to fight, wanted to tear the other man to shreds with his bare hands. How dare T-Bag threaten him when he was free _because_ of Michael. The double crossing bastard. But he just couldn’t bring himself to resist. If T-Bag got one good stab in, just one well-placed frenzied attack… It would all be over. It would have been all for nothing.

In the end he knew that no matter what he was going to acquiesce and give in to the older convict. But at the thought of what T-Bag might want, of _how much_ ‘participation’ he desired… Michael shuddered at the thought. Could he really do it?

T-Bag was beginning to shift on top of him, moving to get more comfortable. But Michael could tell he was growing impatient and wouldn’t wait much longer. And if the Alabamian made the decision for him…Michael wasn’t sure he would like that much. A million scenarios raced through his mind, his brain working at light speed to come up with some sort of plan. Any way to get away from T-Bag, to escape the older man’s perversion.

The serpentine tongue wriggling in T-Bag’s mouth distracted him, and despite Michael’s best intentions he couldn’t help but wonder just how much the convict above him would use the appendage during this sick game. His eyes slammed shut at the thought and his face scrunched up, trying to remove the abhorrent thought from his mind.

“Tick tock, Pretty,” came the hated voice, hissing like the snakes he so closely resembled.

There was no escape. He just couldn’t risk Lincoln’s life. They needed to be at full strength to get through this. Who cared if T-Bag wanted Michael to touch his cock? It was just a body part. Michael’s cold and analytical side began to shelter the rest of his mind, telling him it was no big deal. Humans engaged in sexual acts on a regular basis. Just go through the motions, get it done.

Spitting the words through his teeth, Michael answered, “I’ll… play nice.” Indecision roiled in his gut. At the words of submission T-Bag’s smile broadened and grew sharper, a feral predator realizing the prey was finally in its grasp.

“I gotta tell ya Pretty,” T-Bag mused, trailing off, the grin growing even wider as he spoke. His hands resumed their groping and Michael stopped breathing, his entire attention focused on where T-Bag was roaming and exploring. The touch was gentle and if it had been anyone else Michael may have admitted that it felt enjoyable to be touched so intimately and carefully. The older man ignored the tattoos, instead focusing on sensitive areas of Michael’s chest. It was strange. Everyone had been so obsessed with the markings on his body. T-Bag only seemed interested in… him. It took Michael a while to notice, but when he finally realized his breath hitched for another reason altogether. It was disconcerting to be given attention for anything other than the uniqueness of the ink on his skin.

And then the touch was rough, starling the engineer so badly that he let out a sharp gasp. Nails raked along his pectorals, and the fingers dug in, gripping so harshly he knew there would be bruises the next day. T-Bag’s face was suddenly mere centimeters from his, and the intense brown eyes seared through him. “If you go back on your word you’ll seriously regret it,” he spat, fingers somehow digging in even further.

Michael believed him.

“I said I’d do it,” he shot back, though he was careful to keep his voice down. An intense frown creased across his brows.

T-Bag apparently felt there was no need for a verbal response. Instead the con’s smile returned and he released his brutal grip and resumed the gentle caresses, paying particular attention to the indents his own fingers had made in Michael’s skin. The burning from the scratches and previous grip coupled with the soothing strokes were an irreconcilable clash he had trouble deciphering.  The throbbing pain was a constant reminder of who exactly was touching him, what sort of man he was allowing to put his hands on his body. But the gentleness in which T-Bag touched him, and the way T-Bag stared so intently at him confused the engineer.  How could a man that committed such heinous crimes, who was forcing him into this terrible situation, who harbored such hatred in his heart…how could he have a tender side?

He had expected pain and cruelty, and a heavy dose of humiliation. This…Michael wasn’t quite sure how to handle the affectionate way in which the older man was touching him.

It had been a long time since Michael had known the touch of a lover. Sara was the closest to a significant other of his that he had had in the past few years. Work had just seemed too important, the weight of business making him forget about all other areas in his life. Including his brother. The thought still brought a heavy dose of guilt to his mind.

His thoughts couldn’t make him forget T-Bag’s hands though, couldn’t make him ignore the mild pressure of the other man’s fingers on his chest. The irony that this man was going to be his first partner in years almost made him burst into a fit of laughter, but the grim seriousness of the situation made him choke it back.

He could feel his eyes burning with the threat of tears. The futility that he felt, the indignation that he had been beaten, burned in his heart. And if Michael was truly being honest with himself, he was afraid. Afraid that whatever T-Bag intended to do with him would hurt, that it would scar him for life. But he also feared that he would…enjoy it. Sex had never been important for Michael. The physical pleasure was nice enough, but he had never truly connected with a lover the way he believed others did when they had intercourse. Believing he was possibly asexual, Michael hadn’t let it bother him and chose not to pursue relationships since college. And he had been fine with it.

Then Sara had happened. He had felt something for the woman that he never had with another person, despite trying his best to ignore how he felt about her. The doctor intrigued him, questioned him, cared for him, and respected him. And she was attractive in a way that Michael hadn’t found most women. He thought he would never find anyone like her, would never connect with another person the way he did with Sara.

It was similar to the way he felt about Theodore Bagwell.

Even though T-Bag’s crimes, attitude, and cruelty sickened him to his very core, Michael felt a disturbing attraction towards the Alabamian. No one but Sara had ever tested Michael the way that T-Bag did. No one looked at Michael with the intensity that T-Bag did. And no one could challenge him, go head to head with him the way that T-Bag did. And he found the other male good-looking, the sort of man he would have wanted before he had sworn off relationships. His feelings weren’t disturbing because T-Bag was a male – Michael had never preferred one gender over the other. No, it was due to the fact that T-Bag was such a horrible person. Michael shouldn’t have felt _any_ affinity towards the other man.

And here he was, being touched by a man he hated but found striking, and Michael was afraid his body would betray him. When Sara had graced him with her gentle hands whenever she cared for him at the infirmary his heart had beat wildly and his body had ignited. He had never felt as good as he did when she was near. He wanted to feel that way with her, and only her. Michael was terrified T-Bag would make his body feel even an iota as wonderful as Sara made him feel.

His eyes had closed without him realizing it and when he reopened them, fighting the sting of tears, he was shocked to see that T-Bag had leaned down. The con’s mouth was close, breathing so softly Michael couldn’t even feel breath against his face. Their gazes met for a moment, two intense fires that blazed at one another with equal fervor.

And then T-Bag’s snake tongue was flicking at the tight seal of his lips. His tongue wasn’t forceful, but certainly insistent. Michael groaned without any pleasure, and T-Bag answered the sound with a pleasured noise of his own, the perfect opposite.

Michael wanted to fight, he really did. He wanted to rage against the Alabamian with all the strength in his body. He wanted to shout and curse and call for his brother, his protector. But he was too concerned it would all go down in flames if he resisted. He didn’t want Lincoln or Sucre to be hurt. So instead he remembered his promise to obey, opened his mouth, and accepted the wriggling appendage inside.

At first, T-Bag was aggressive with him. The southerner’s tongue lashed out violently, exploring Michael’s mouth with unrestrained passion. Enthusiastic groans and growls slipped past T-Bag’s lips and he nipped at Michael’s mouth. For his part, Michael lay perfectly still, hoping his submission would be enough ‘participation’. T-Bag’s hands absently roamed across his chest before suddenly latching onto his nipples, tweaking them with firm pinches.

Gasping from the sharp pain, Michael glared up at T-Bag. He wasn’t sure the other man could tell though. With their faces so close to one another it was hard to see expressions. But what Michael was aware of was that the con’s eyes were staring straight into his, focused on him even when their vision was blurred because of their proximity. It was equal parts unnerving and…electrifying. The next sound that escaped from his mouth wasn’t from the pain, but rather a horrified astonishment.

T-Bag didn’t need to know that though.

At the second sound, T-Bag became gentle, his tongue slowing to gentle laps and caresses. The fingers that had so brutally pinched his nipples now rubbed them, tickling the sensitive flesh. Assaulted by the new sensations, Michael began to panic. Like before, he wasn’t prepared for the gentleness. He had expected brutality. Michael began to protest with terror, raising his hands in preparation to shove T-Bag away from him.

Starting to push at T-Bag’s chest, Michael had barely put any pressure behind the shove when T-Bag’s hands locked on to his wrists. The cuff chain rattled and twisted as they grappled with one another, the chain not short enough to impede the tussle but a reminder that no matter who won, they would still be connected.

Ultimately, though Michael was bigger and bulkier than the Alabamian, he just wasn’t as strong as the smaller man. With an angry grunt, T-Bag forced Michael’s hands up and over his head, pinning his arms there. Both men panted, their frantic breaths mingling together. Michael’s eyes widened in fear despite himself when he saw the look on T-Bag’s face. His breaths quickened even more, his chest heaving.

T-Bag looked at him for a moment, the anger harsh and caustic in his eyes. But as he continued to stare at Michael and took in the emotions flashing across the engineer’s face, his expression softened. At first Michael didn’t notice it, was still too afraid. But he finally registered that a soft hand was caressing his cheek and the iron grip was gone from his wrists. “Pretty, oh Pretty,” was murmured softly, almost lovingly.

When Michael’s breathing finally slowed, that was when T-Bag said, “Not all of my… partners have been willing, as I’m sure ya know.” He spoke softly and soothingly, the words at odds with his tone. “And I’ll fight with you another time.” A sharp smile full of promise bent the Alabamian’s mouth. But then the smile was gone and a serious expression took over. “But I promise, at least for tonight, I won’t hurt you.”

So many thoughts reeled in his mind. It wasn’t so much the pain he was afraid of. In fact, he almost wished for it now that the softer side of the Southern convict was showing again. Obviously T-Bag wasn’t aware of that, didn’t know that the sickest parts of Michael found the disgusting man attractive in a primal way he couldn’t help. A sob was lodged somewhere deep in his chest. There was no way to get out of this. Either T-Bag would grow angry enough to take what he wanted from Michael no matter what, he would hurt Lincoln or someone else, or…Michael could give in, and perhaps, just maybe, he could enjoy it instead of feeling misery.

But would the physical pleasure in the moment just lead to emotional misery later?

If he continued like this he would just keep thinking himself in circles. Michael closed his eyes, took a deep breath and then reopened, staring straight into T-Bag’s eyes. “Liar,” he whispered, the word barely audible. _You’ll hurt me even if you don’t realize it._ Ignoring the final negative thought, Michael steeled himself. And then he was grabbing the smaller man’s prison shirt and bringing their lips together in a manic kiss.

For just a second T-Bag was surprised, caught off guard, and didn’t respond. But then his lips and tongue were joining the fray, battling with Michael in a duel that was just as intense as any cognitive match the two of them had found themselves in in the past. The engineer’s hands tightened around the fabric of T-Bag’s shirt as the kiss deepened, and T-Bag’s hands found themselves back around Michael’s wrists in a tight, but not punishing, grip.

 When they broke apart, their breaths mingled as they each let out gasps and then they were colliding again without a word. Michael still lay on his back, T-Bag straddling him. But as their kiss continued Michael sat up further, and T-Bag didn’t fight him. The older convict ended up in his lap, legs wrapped around his waist. He hadn’t forgotten about T-Bag’s cock, the organ still as hard as ever, now trapped between their bodies.

_What am I doing?_

Breaking the kiss, Michael took in a few gulps of air, feeling dizzy. He wasn’t sure if it was from the lack of oxygen or the kiss, but he was hoping for the former. T-Bag cocked his head, looking expectant. He shot a glare towards the older man and a mocking smirk was given to him in return. Michael ignored the bubbling irritation.

Hands loosening from the fabric, Michael tentatively ran his hands across the covered planes of T-Bag’s chest. He could feel the firm pecs through the shirt, and against every wish his hands tingled with the desire to feel the other man’s chest in the flesh. T-Bag had let go of his wrists again, giving Michael free reign.

Brushing a finger against the older man’s nipple, Michael didn’t miss the way that it hardened beneath his touch. T-Bag drew in a deep breath, and his chin angled down in a jerking reaction, but his eyes never left Michael’s. The engineer lowered his left hand, aware of the handcuff on his right and the limitations it posed. He found the hem of T-Bag’s shirt and slipped inside.

Hand trembling in fear and anticipation, Michael pressed his hand against T-Bag’s stomach. He couldn’t even see the flesh he was touching, but the memory of the other man’s body the times they had come across one another in the showers during their incarceration in Fox River was vivid in his mind. The skin would be pale, unmarred from any unsightly blemishes or scars. There were no huge muscles or a defined six-pack, but there was wiry strength there, and a lithe body. Moving his hand up, Michael found the hardened nipple and returned the rough pinch that T-Bag had given his nipples from a few minutes before. It was as if he hadn’t even done it. T-Bag made no sound of pain or protest. Instead he grinded their bodies closer together, and Michael could feel the other man’s cock more clearly.

His own dick was halfway interested, not fully hard or soft. But whenever T-Bag moved or shifted the older con’s ass rubbed against his cock, ultimately coaxing it to harden further. Moaning in pleasure at a particularly firm rub of friction, T-Bag repeated the movement in an effort to get Michael to replicate the sound. The damned smirk was back, the Alabamian clearly pleased he had reduced the high and mighty engineer to a mewling whore. Michael resented it, but he didn’t stop, remembering the consequences.

_This is not who I am._

When Michael answered T-Bag’s smirk with a condescending sneer, their kiss resumed with savagery, each trying to prove their domination over the other. Michael attempted to roll, to get T-Bag on his back, but the wily man was still too strong, too clever, and he fought back, instead forcing Michael back down so that he was no longer sitting up. His arms were forced above his head, the Alabamian gripping his wrists in his small but powerful hands. “Enough playing,” T-Bag panted, his pupils blown wide with adrenaline and lust. With his unrestrained right hand, T-Bag reached down and began to work at the hem of Michael’s pants. Michael’s left hand was free and he could have fought, could have resisted. But instead he panted harshly, fear for what was to come freezing him. He didn’t help T-Bag, didn’t lift his hips in order to aid the removal of his prison pants or boxers. It didn’t matter. T-Bag was strong and he was _determined._ A man on a mission, Michael thought with an insane hyena laugh echoing in his mind.

Licking his lips, the tip of his tongue playing along the seams of his mouth, T-Bag stared down at the engineer. And Michael did his best not to squirm under the scrutinizing gaze. “Not just a pretty face,” T-Bag whispered, and he smiled when he saw Michael’s look of mortification. His cock, however, seemed to like the attention, and Michael could feel himself growing harder despite the embarrassment he felt at T-Bag’s staring.

T-Bag focused his attention on his own pants and underwear then, somehow shimmying the garments down his body while still keeping Michael pinned. He couldn’t help but take notice, had always been burdened with sensory input as long as he could remember; Michael’s entire being was focused on the older man’s body, studying the curve of his ass, taking note of the barely there hair on T-Bag’s body, the strong muscles in his thighs. Everything about this man was arousing, the type of partner Michael had only dreamed of in another male.

And it couldn’t have been a worse person he felt this way towards.

_I’m still a good person._

He tensed when T-Bag was finally naked from the waist down, his breathing becoming shallow once more. Logically, he knew what was coming next. T-Bag would fuck him and it would _hurt_. His pride would be shattered, and any fantasies about T-Bag’s earlier compassion and promise not to hurt him would be crushed as the older man viciously took what he wanted. Knowing he could take the pain, but still fearing it, Michael wondered what exactly would harm him more: the agony of losing his virginity with this man (he had never gone all the way with a male before) and the feeling of betraying who he was at his core, or the literal pain. It was quite the toss-up.

“Settle, Pretty,” T-Bag murmured when he felt Michael’s body tense. He ran a soothing hand along Michael’s thigh. “I’m gonna make it so good for ya,” he promised, dark desire glittering in his brown eyes.

And damn it, Michael believed him. How could he not when the Alabamian looked at him like that, with so much conviction, so much promise? And so he relaxed, letting his body ease into a state of calm despite the tempest of anxiety that whirled in his chest.

 “Good boy,” T-Bag praised, and Michael would look back on this moment later, wondering if his obedience made the older man take mercy on him.

With a deep breath, T-Bag inserted two of his fingers into his mouth from his uncuffed right hand. Sucking obscenely on the digits, he stared right into Michael’s eyes, hardly blinking. _He’s going to put those in me_. The thought brought a startling amount of terror, but he remained still, appearing as if he were calm.

That calm was shattered when T-Bag lifted his hips, settled firmly on his knees and shoved his nimble fingers inside…himself. Michael’s eyes bulged, and he stared down, watching as the Alabamian fucked himself on his fingers. A throaty laugh met his reaction. T-Bag chuckled and threw his head back, stained teeth biting down on his bottom lip in ecstasy at the sensations he was giving himself. “Been a while,” he finally huffed when he resumed staring at Michael, all the while riding his fingers at a steady pace. Michael wasn’t sure his eyes could open any wider.

“Wouldn’t do this for just anyone, Michael.” And somehow, the use of his real name instead of the pet name made the hushed words all the more intimate, in an arousing, skin-crawling way Michael couldn’t shake. Michael tried his hardest to squash the grateful relief that bloomed in his chest. So his rapist was being generous. That shouldn’t have made him feel better.

Except it _did._

“But I promised ya.” Huffing, T-Bag rose, giving himself room to insert a third finger.

And Michael had been wrong. His eyes widened further at that.

“And I won’t complain with your pretty cock in me,” the southerner continued, a guttural growl following the words as he found his prostate and massaged the pleasurable spot.

The sounds of desire the older man made were not unnoticed by Michael and he grit his teeth, fighting his own arousal. He didn’t want to enjoy this in any way, wanted the exchange to be passionless and meaningless. It was a forced business deal, nothing more. But T-Bag was insistent, his moans and rocking hips capturing Michael’s attention whenever he tried to ignore him.

Revealing his flexibility and dexterity, T-Bag continued to finger his ass while leaning down to steal a kiss from Michael. Their lips met lightly, in an almost tender contact. And all the while they stared at one another, lost within the fire of the opposite’s eyes, trying to decipher what they saw there. A tentative tongue flicked out at the engineer and he opened his mouth, accepting the intrusion with a groan he hadn’t meant to make. Their kiss was slow, thorough, unlike the rough interaction from before. But it was just as full of spirit as the previous kiss, and Michael could feel his soul cracking from the tumultuous emotions wreaking havoc in his mind.

_This will destroy me._

They lingered in the fragile state of intimacy for some time, grinding against one another slowly, kissing languidly, T-Bag fingering himself unhurriedly. It was a long time before Michael noticed anything had changed, and his mind finally catalogued and made the connection when he felt both of T-Bag’s hands holding his face. T-Bag had either forgotten all about fucking himself with his fingers or figured he had had enough. Before Michael could complain about the unsanitary digits on his face, T-Bag shifted, changing the game before Michael could get his bearings.

Kisses were lightly peppered along his face as T-Bag shifted down Michael’s body, the kisses continuing down his neck, chest, stomach, until T-Bag was near his hardened member. The infuriating and condescending smirk was back, an obvious challenge. Michael answered it with a frown, and apparently it met T-Bag’s approval, for the older man chuckled softly before enveloping Michael’s entire cock in one gulp.

He forgot the necessity of quiet in that moment, a strangled moan escaping him. The sound seemed to boom throughout the building and both men froze in alarm, their eyes meeting in panic. Lincoln was undoubtedly still on lookout, but Michael hoped their run from Fox River had dulled his senses, tired his brother enough that the sound would be missed. If Lincoln came back there, came to check on him, Michael had no doubt T-Bag would strike.

There was a rustling from the front of the shed, a creak as the door was opened. No doubt it was his brother surveying outside, making sure they were all still safe. Lincoln had most likely heard his moan, but attributed it to a dream, or was choosing to ignore it based on the way it sounded. But he had probably been shaken from his reverie of sitting still and keeping watch. Now he would be aware of the faintest sound.

And that fact wasn’t missed by T-Bag, who glared at him with acidic annoyance.

Before he could speak, T-Bag hissed, “Don’t think that changes things, Scofield.” And then he was sucking on Michael’s cock with a cruel pressure that Michael was sure was intended to draw a scream. But Michael was ready this time, covering his mouth with his un-cuffed hand and biting hard, stifling any sounds his body wanted to make. He was pleased with himself for meeting T-Bag’s challenge so well, and a self-satisfied smile curled the corner of his mouth.

When Michael refused to make a sound, the harsh pressure was gone and instead the sucks became pleasurable, the right amount of pressure, tongue, and hand jerking. And T-Bag’s eyes glittered brightly in the dim light, a pleased shine in the brown pools. A winding tongue lapped around the tip of his dick before lips followed, applying a firm grip around the shaft. Talent. Michael had to admit, the man had talent. T-Bag was giving him the best blowjob of his life and he was hardly exerting himself.  The man leaned easily on his elbows, not hindered by the short length of the cuffs, or the length of Michael’s…well, his cock. T-Bag easily swallowed it, as if it were nothing, and he did it with relish. Soft little groans echoed in his hollowed cheeks, not loud enough to carry to Lincoln, but enough that Michael knew T-Bag was enjoying this just as much as he was.

The oral ministrations were cut far too short for Michael’s liking. Just when he was beginning to lose himself, truly allow himself to forget who exactly was pleasuring him and just focus on the sensations, the older convict leaned up, leaving Michael feeling restless with desire. He didn’t have to wait long, however, for T-Bag to continue to deliver. T-Bag snaked his way up, dragging his body along the engineer’s, creating a delicious friction that left both of them quietly gasping. They met for a brief kiss, but then T-Bag pulled away, teasing and tantalizing. On all fours, he hovered above Michael’s body, denying the contact they both so desperately craved. “Ready, Pretty?” he whispered, eyes shining with such a sheer amount of intensity that it floored Michael.

Embarrassed at the amount of…feeling he was experiencing because of T-Bag, Michael strove for a contempt sneer. “Just shut up and do it, _Theodore_ ,” he goaded, making sure to add as much scorn into his voice as possible.

_How far gone is Michael Scofield?_

A raised eyebrow and a quirk of lips was all the response he got before T-Bag started to lower himself, his body swallowing Michael up in a tight grip. They stared at each other the entire time, seeing through each other, understanding one another on a primal level neither had experienced before. Michael was convinced T-Bag _knew_ he was forcing his disdain, _knew_ he was enjoying this despite himself. And Michael was equally convinced he was seeing a new side to Theodore Bagwell, a side the man hadn’t showed many before.

Perhaps he was the only one that had seen this version of T-Bag.

And then Michael couldn’t even think about anything else but T-Bag anymore. Normally no matter what activity he was engaged in his mind could cipher information and force him to observe and catalogue. Not now. His entire being was focused on T-Bag as the man rode him slowly, raising himself up and down, the muscles in T-Bag’s body clenching in just the right way. He lost himself in the feeling of T-Bag’s hands fluttering along his chest. He listened to the almost imperceptible gasps the Alabamian made. He watched as T-Bag licked his lips, eyes flickering open and closed in pleasure. When the older man leaned down to capture his lips in a kiss, Michael felt his stomach flip-flop, so intense was the pleasure.

At first the kiss was slow, like before. But as T-Bag found his rhythm, and as Michael began to raise his hips in order to meet him, the two began to kiss fiercely. He felt like they were lovers being forced to say goodbye, that this was the last time they would be with one another. And in reality, wasn’t it? Wouldn’t Michael be more cautious with T-Bag in the future, ensuring this couldn’t happen again? And didn’t they plan to separate anyway? Forget sex, he would never even _see_ the Alabamian again after they found a way to cut the cuffs.

He ignored the way his heart shuddered at the thought of never seeing Theodore Bagwell again.

Instead he threw himself wholeheartedly into the kiss, lashing out with his frustration at his traitorous emotions, his fear for Lincoln, his desperation for a better future, and his abhorrent desire for the disgusting, vile, hated, yet undeniably attractive man he was currently fucking.

They stayed connected at the mouth, tongues lashing at one another, even as Michael sat up. It wasn’t as easy for Michael to thrust into T-Bag while sitting, so he let the smaller man do the work, enjoying the feel of T-Bag riding him, bouncing himself up and down in Michael’s lap. He took the time to do his own labor, however, using his left hand to grip the Alabamian’s solid cock and experimentally sliding his hand up and down. A hiss greeted him when he firmly grasped the flesh, and he smiled around the kiss. 

“Use some spit, Pretty,” T-Bag advised around a huff, but Michael was sure the disturbed man would enjoy it even if there was no form of lubrication whatsoever. Michael complied however, spitting several times into his hand before grabbing at the hardened flesh once more. “Yessssss,” the Alabamian hissed out, throwing his head back in ecstasy. His riding pace quickened, spurring Michael to match the speed with his hand, and the engineer frantically pulled and squeezed in what he hoped was an acceptable way. He felt little insecurity, however, when he looked at T-Bag’s flushed face. The other man was certainly enjoying this, no matter how little experience Michael had with homosexual sex.  

Despite the mounting pleasure, and the rushing exhilaration they each felt, they never forgot the danger that loud noises would bring. Aware that Lincoln was across the building, not far enough away for them to let loose the amount of noise they truly wanted, they instead clamped their mouths shut as firmly as possible, whether with their own lips or each other’s with desperate kisses.

It could never last long enough. The frightening pleasure, the agitating arousal, the frustrating need for silence, the heightened senses making his skin tingle, and even the simple wrongness of it all made Michael feel more alive in this moment than any other. Even the adrenaline pumping escape - or the handful of near-discoveries during their efforts while incarcerated in Fox River to make way for their flight - nothing could compare to this moment with T-Bag. He could feel shards of his soul falling away as he realized how much he had ached for this. How much he had wanted to be with T-Bag from the moment the other man had challenged him so effectively. A piece of his mind was broken, chipped away, when he realized even Sara couldn’t keep him on his toes the way the Alabamian did. She was safe, caring, warm and he _did_ love her. But T-Bag was dangerous, exhilarating, mentally stimulating.  A partner he had always dreamed of finding. Why, why, did it have to be Bagwell who made him feel this way?

His moral dilemma was forgotten as he hit his peak, trembling with the sheer force of his release. Michael didn’t even think about warning T-Bag he was going to come, somehow _knew_ the older man wouldn’t want him to pull out. A low groan escaped the other man as he felt Michael finish, and then he too found his release, spurting inside the tight grip of Michael’s hand.

Panting, his forehead pressed against T-Bag’s forehead, Michael tried to regain equilibrium, fighting against his lightheadedness and striving for balance. He could feel T-Bag’s hot breath hitting his face and he finally pulled back, staring at the other man with a furious glare. There was no mocking smirk or victorious sneer meeting his gaze. Instead T-Bag looked vulnerably content, eyes hazy and a lazy smile on his lips. Michael wasn’t sure what he would have preferred to see in the other convict’s eyes in that moment, but knew it didn’t matter when he realized he was reaching up, grabbing the back of T-Bag’s head in order to push their lips together, stealing one last forceful kiss.

When they pulled apart, slowly, reluctantly, T-Bag’s smile was back. “Gonna get me goin’ again, Pretty, if you keep that up,” he whispered, laughing softly, brown eyes glittering with mirth.

Growling in feigned disgust, Michael pushed at T-Bag’s chest, urging the other man to get off of him. T-Bag lifted his body and Michael’s cock slipped out, causing both men to hiss in unison. They got dressed silently, avoiding unnecessary talk and eye contact. The moment somehow felt strained, awkward. And Michael felt like crying.

 _What is_ wrong _with me?_

After getting dressed, the task hindered by the connecting chain of their handcuffs, they both laid down, as much distance between them as possible. Out of the corner of his eye, Michael could see T-Bag toying with the screwdriver, twirling it absently in his right hand. The silence was deafening, and Michael should have been relieved. Finally, the Alabamian had shut up. But he wasn’t comforted by it. Something felt wrong. Michael felt fury bubbling beneath the surface, at himself and at T-Bag for causing his turmoil.

“So a deal’s a deal, right?” he ground out, finally giving in to the need to say something.

T-Bag didn’t answer for a while, and when he did, he startled Michael. Though Michael hated that he couldn’t anticipate T-Bag’s thoughts and actions, he realized he hungered for the challenge that the Alabamian presented; always up to something, trying to keep a step ahead, perplexing him at every turn. T-Bag moved quickly, rolling so that he was right next to Michael, enveloping his wrists in tight grips, leaning over the engineer.

“Right, deal’s a deal. I won’t poke any holes in your brother, Scofield.” T-Bag squeezed his wrists in emphasis of his words. The dangerous smirk was back. “For tonight anyway.” He then leaned down, kissing Michael lightly, teasing.

Before the connection could get heated, the southerner pulled away, revealing a self-restraint Michael didn’t know T-Bag had. “We can renegotiate again tomorrow,” he breathed, closing his eyes and lying back down. Michael absently noted the man was lying closer to him than before.

“This won’t happen again,” Michael argued, but he could hear how weak his words sounded.

“Sure, Pretty, sure,” T-Bag yawned. “And you still hate me, I’m a terrible criminal, I’ll burn in hell, yadda yadda.” Irritation was back at the other man’s flippant tone, quickly replacing any sentimental feelings Michael had garnered for his rapist.

_Was it rape if you enjoyed it, Michael?_

And to be honest, it stung how spot on T-Bag was. Michael was appalled at his own actions, at finding any sort of pleasure at the hands of T-Bag. Yet he found himself scheming with ways for them to be intimate again, how he could manipulate a situation in which they would be alone. And like lightning his mind would change, aghast at himself. And he was thinking of ways to get away from T-Bag, to get through the chain and ditch the convict. But a second later he flip flopped again, terrified of the idea of losing the one person that had ever understood and tested him so completely.

He thought he might go crazy right there, so fast were his thoughts and emotions whipping around inside his head. Guilt, denial, longing, bargaining, hope, and more circled. Michael could feel his body tensing, but he was losing himself in his mind, couldn’t stop.

And just as suddenly, a hand was in his, squeezing, bringing him back to himself. Brown eyes stared at him, a deep understanding there, belying the mocking from before. Was it possible T-Bag was capable of feeling, knew what Michael was going through? Did the Alabamian realize how horrible his crimes were? Wanted to be better, wanted help to fight his inner demons, wanted some sort of redemption?

It was apparent his questions weren’t going to be answered that night, for with a blink, when T-Bag realized Michael was back, the compassion and understanding was gone, and the mask of ridicule was back. Tongue playing along the seam of his mouth, T-Bag chuckled, “Go to sleep, Michael,” before he laid back down, closing his eyes once more.

He did as he was told, too exhausted to argue. And really, what was the point? He needed his rest, and there was nowhere to go when he was attached to the other man. An emptiness settled over him, and Michael recognized it as a defense mechanism. His mind was shutting down all emotion in order to spare him for the moment. He would have to deal with the repercussions of his tryst later, he was sure, but for now he could ignore it.

As he was drifting to sleep, his mind just about completely shut down, he was abruptly jolted awake by a sensation he had somehow missed before. While he and T-Bag were definitely not cuddling in an intimate post-coital embrace, the con’s hand was still in his, in a firm, but not oppressive grip.

Somehow, that small gesture was enough to envelope Michael in a sense of calm. A warmth settled over him. While Michael knew he would have to face what he had done, and _who_ he had done it with, for now, everything was all right. He may have put his soul on the line, but ultimately what truly mattered was intact: Lincoln was safe, his plans were still in motion.

Everything was going to work out.

With a relieved sigh, he rolled on his side, moving his body closer to the warmth radiating from T-Bag’s body, and squeezed the hand that was nestled so perfectly in his. He fell asleep to the feeling of the older man squeezing back.

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah yeah, Lincoln probably would have come and checked on his brother. Whatever! ;D
> 
> I wasn’t sure how to finish this story, so I’m sorry about the ending.  
> I’m not sure if I will ever continue this story. If I did, I think I would explore their relationship as the series progresses. Sometimes I like to try to make canon work while also making the fictional relationship work. So maybe I’ll try to do that. I don’t know though! 
> 
> Anyway, if you like the Michael x T-Bag pairing, you should read ‘Investigation’ by dishonestdreams (http://archiveofourown.org/works/919216) - I believe you have to be logged in to your AO3 account to view it. It is an absolutely amazing story. The characterization, details, and writing are absolutely fabulous. I can’t rave enough. 
> 
> Thanks for reading, and any comments or reviews are welcome!


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